Neil broke the silence. “Pipe to me,” he said.
Peter laughed. He pulled the whistle from his pocket, and his fingers held it very lovingly. He put it to his lips.
First there came a couple of clear notes, like a bird-call; they repeated themselves in the distance and were answered. Then the air became alive with the joyous warbling of feathered choristers, and through the warbling came the sound [Pg 16]of little rills chasing each other over brown stones, where fish darted in the sunlight and dragonflies skimmed. Next, across a meadow—one knew it was a meadow—came the sound of little feet and children’s laughter. And the sound of the laughter and the babbling of the water and the song of the birds were all mingled in one delicious bubbling melody drawn from the very heart of Nature. It came to a pause. You felt the children, the birds, and the brooks hold their breath to listen. And then from the branches of some tree a hidden nightingale sang alone.
Peter stopped, wiped the pipe on his sleeve, and put it back in his pocket.
“Marvellous!” breathed Neil softly.
Again there was a pause, and again it was broken by Neil.
“I say, will you come back and have lunch with me?” There was a frank spontaneity about the question.
Again the wistful look crept into Peter’s blue eyes. The suggestion coming suddenly was evidently somewhat of a temptation.
“I believe I’d like to,” he said lightly, “but——”
“Well?” asked Neil.